


The world was on fire (and no one could save me but you)

by Ellie5192



Series: The Laws of Physics [3]
Category: Sneakers (1992)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It hasn’t been an easy road, littered with disagreements about what kind of house to buy and what neighbourhood; trivial things too, like what plants will go in the back garden beds and whether to replace the handles in the basement bathroom...<br/>But the alternative was living without him"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I Find You

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for story and chapters taken from various songs (although the songs don’t necessarily relate, I just liked the poetry of particular lines). The plans for this house have been ruminating for years, and can be found on my tumblr in the Sneakers tag. It’s a pretty sweet house, you should check it out. Follows in the same universe as my other Sneakers fic Enough For Now, but can stand alone.  
> This is for Jules, who planted the seed of this idea (sex in every room of the new house?) and whose encouragement I sorely needed to get off my butt and actually write the damn thing. Here you go bb, all yours.  
> Enjoy!

**When I Find You**

When the remodelling is still half done – crown moulding restored in the front parlour, the basement roof reinforced after they knocked out a wall, floors on the first and second floors sanded back to their original timber, and the antique fireplace cleaned out and made usable. When all of that is finished, yet other rooms still require their finishing touches, the first piece of furniture to be installed is her piano.

Brought over from her old apartment it sits pride of place in front of the wide bay window, angled so it both catches the sun and she can watch the rest of the room. This is to be her teaching room, filled with rows and rows of music books and stands, an office and private classroom retained to the side. Their kitchen is down the hall and through a closed door, which she’s contemplating buying a _Private_ sign for just in case students get snoopy.

But out here it’s her space, designed so that she can tutor and conduct her own school, teaching music and perhaps mathematics, on the days she doesn’t work at the Conservatory. 

The piano man taps the top of the closed lid, pleased with the sound it makes after hours spent tuning it; the move knocked it around, and the only way they could get it through the door was to tip it on its side. But it was worth it to see her baby grand installed right where she wants it, its reflection practically shining in the dark stain of the hardwood floors it stands on. The room still looks sparse, 12ft ceilings and no furniture showcasing its vast size.

The house really is extravagant, if she’s being honest. (Extravagant and beautiful, a traditional Victorian three-story with a garage below as well. Far too much for just two people, but then, they weren’t fooling themselves that the place caters to just them. His children and hers.)

They wanted their forever-home, and the space allows Martin’s two lives to remain separate; the entire basement level has been converted into the new clubhouse after he sold the loft, most of the first level is her teaching space, and upstairs is their home – master suite and a small lounge nook just for them. It was the first space they made livable – stripped back the damaged carpet and paint, the bathroom still in need of aesthetic work even though it’s usable. But’s despite being somewhat spartan, it's all theirs, and she knows they’ll be happy there for many years once it’s fully completed.

And besides, she saved her money so thoughtfully all her life; it makes sense to invest it here, in her new dream.

She hears Bishop walk out from the kitchen and into her room. Turning, she sees his hands in his pockets and a little grin on his face. Behind him through the kitchen door, she can see the remnants of a room barely finished; they painted the existing cabinetry white and have a new benchtop installed, but the tilers still have to come back for the floor and the appliances need replacing. That will be her next priority, she thinks, as she watches Bishop walk towards her. He’s busy with the boys, installing carpet in the basement bedroom and bringing all of Whistler’s gadgets over.

She doesn’t care that it takes so much time to finish things; she just wanted this first room done, so that when she walks in the front door she can see at least a little of their visions come to fruition.

It will get there, in time. And now they have all the time in the world.

“Happy?” he asks, and he walks over to her and places a hand on top of the closed lid.

“Very” she replies, turning quickly to pay the piano man in cash and thank him for his work. He did a fine job; other than the high F# that’s always been a little sticky anyway, the pitch of each note is just perfect.  

They watch the man leave, excusing himself out the front door, and then she turns back to Bishop. (She hasn’t got out the habit of calling him that, and doesn’t think she ever will. Martin Brice may have signed the mortgage on this place, but Bishop is the man he’s always been.)

“We may have to get a rug out here” he says, looking around at the large space, eyeing the lid and noting that it will open towards the room for even more sound. He doesn’t know much about music acoustics, but enough time spent around Whistler and he knows enough that the sound in here will carry… a _lot_.

She grins at him and points to a rolled up rug leaning against the wall. “That will go in front of the fireplace. I will probably get another one for the student’s sitting area, so their chairs don’t scratch my beautiful floors”

He looks down at the floor; it was finished only three days ago.

“The house is coming together” she says, joy reflected in her countenance and her expression.

He doesn’t say anything, but then he doesn’t have to; he smiles at her, and levels her with that look that runs right through her; like he can see every thought and feeling she has. It hasn’t been an easy road, littered with disagreements about what kind of house to buy and what neighbourhood; trivial things too, like what plants will go in the back garden beds and whether to replace the handles in the basement bathroom (it didn’t need renovating, but she argued it was tired and he countered that Mother didn’t deserve new cupboard handles and Whistler wouldn’t know the difference, and in the end she’d conceded that it was his basement and if he wanted grubby old-fashioned brass that was his problem. Their master ensuite would be a different matter entirely).

But the alternative was living without him – going back to a life that didn’t have crime and guns and the NSA. Didn’t have him in it. Nice, fulfilling, and quiet; all of the things she had steadily grown bored with even if she did love her job. She hadn’t known how _much_ she’d missed it until she was sitting next to them all, listening to Mother’s nonsense about UFOs, and Crease’s travel dreams, and laughing at young Carl (Carl who hadn’t been part of the crew back in her day, but who fit in like he’d always been there). It was a choice she made with eyes open, to jump back into this with him despite her protests – Bishop had his name back now, and she wanted to be there to see what he did with it. She was the first one he ever told about his identity, and it’s fitting that she can be there to see the end result.

That and she loves him. Which is no small factor.

They order pizza for dinner (his idea) from a place that puts fancy things on as toppings (her choice) and Bishop rolls out the rug in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire now that the chimney works again. They eat pizza like it’s a picnic, floor lamps casting a low glow around the room and enhancing the dark stain of the wood floors. Their voices echo in the large space, but it doesn’t matter; it’s just them.

She stretches out next to him, lazy and content, and he runs his hand appreciatively up her leg and then shuffles closer. He kisses her with soft purpose, and she hums at him and returns it, and doesn’t protest when he pushes her down into the rug, his body crowding over hers, his hands buried in her hair. (She’s letting it grow to see what it looks like longer. Something different is the order of the day, and it’s been short for so many years she feels like a change.)

He opens her shirt buttons one at a time, and not all at once, a hand skimming her skin as it’s slowly revealed. He doesn’t slide it off her arms, content to work through the opening for now. She takes off his overshirt but leaves the white teeshirt on him, instead undoing the button and fly of his jeans. He kisses her all over – her eyelids and her neck, down to her sternum, his chin grazing the lace of her bra where the wires meet in the middle. His hands hold her hips, long fingers fanning out over her waist.

They pull each other’s pants off at the same time, shucking out of them in unison as they kiss unhurriedly, laughing when she knees him gently in the thigh. He kneels before her in just his briefs and the teeshirt, leans back towards the fire and quickly throws another log on so that it will keep burning a while yet. She sits up and tosses her shirt off towards the pile of clothes at the edge of the rug next to the empty pizza box, a half bottle of red wine, and two used glasses. Left in just her underwear, firelight dancing on her skin, he takes a moment to appreciate the view, and as always she feels enamoured with the look in his eye. 

She lies back down into the plush of the rug – high pile of soft threads in an off white cream.

“You too” she says, tugging lightly at the hem of his teeshirt. He just grins at her and throws it over his head in a single move. She likes to see all of him when they make love; map the plains of his chest and shoulders with her hands as he settles between her legs; it’s one of the few times she completely lets go.

She sits up, chests almost touching, and reaches behind her. Before she can, his arm goes around her back and without breaking eye contact he unclasps her bra in a single deft flick of his fingers against the eyelets. (He was always good at that.) She blinks slowly, a smile on her face, and hums at him. She doesn’t need to look at him to know the smug look he must be sporting.

He pulls the straps down her arms as she lowers herself back down, and she takes great pleasure in watching his eyes rake over her body, eager (she knows) to touch her. Hands on her hips once more, thumbs stroking her slightly protruding bones, he lowers his head and kisses a path from her bellybutton upwards, open-mouth and luscious. He diverts first to her left breast, trailing his tongue across her nipple and the sensitive skin to the side, licking and suckling and lightly grazing her with his teeth, getting her wetter and wetter as his thumbs continue their gentle motions at her hips. And then he kisses across her chest to her right breast, repeating his actions, paying special attention to the sweet spot he found many years ago, right above where her underwires stop.

She moans his name ( _Martin_ this time; he is always _Martin_ when they’re naked and writhing. She’s sometimes Lizzie, a childhood nickname she thoroughly despises in any other circumstances except this, here, now.) Her hands, far from being idle, trail over his back up and down, nails scratching, before they bury in his hair and pull him up to kiss her once more. It’s all tongues and teeth, and his mouth sucking on her bottom lip.

Settling more firmly between her legs they reach across and around each other and pull their underwear off with the same unhurried determination that saw the rest of their clothes go.

Bishop’s eye catches the piano a few feet away, the veneer reflecting the shimmer of the fire behind them. “Will you play for me?” he asks, his gaze moving back to hers, one elbow propping him above her while the other hand cups her breast, his thumb flicking her nipple lightly. She can feel his length resting against the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, only a couple of inches from where she really wants him.

She smiles at the question and nods, humming an affirmative. ”Later”

And then she reaches between them and takes him in hand, stroking a couple of times to watch the pleasure cross his face, and then guides him into her. He moans lowly, her own breath caught in her throat as it always does in that first delicious moment of being filled. He strokes slowly – almost too slow – as each time a little more of him enters her. Before long he is hilt-deep, and he pauses (mostly, she thinks, for dramatic effect, which is equal parts delightful and exasperating.) Her bent legs come up and around the back of his thighs, locking him in place and giving her purchase to thrust up against him, her clit grazing the hair at his pelvic bone. She knows he will take care of her, so she doesn’t worry about chasing her orgasm, but instead encourages him to move in a lazy rhythm with her. Warm, and wet, and enjoying every moment; every stroke of his hand against her ribcage, her sternum, her breasts, down and around to hold her thigh against him for a moment (because he knows she likes that.)

“I love my new room” she says huskily, rubbing at his arse as he moves in her. He laughs at her gently, nodding, eyes flicking quickly to the picture-perfect image of the piano next to the window, the moon now high enough in the sky to shine just a little through it. Then he looks back at her, red hair made fiery, skin shining with pleasure-built sweat, eyes vivid green in the low light.

 “It’s a nice room” he says casually. The combination of his nonchalant tone and the look on his face while he’s buried balls-deep inside her makes her laugh, and she pulls him in for a lingering kiss, nudging her hips a little harder.

He takes the hint and picks up the pace – sends her over the edge with a thumb on her clit before seeking it himself – and before long they are panting against each other, her inner muscles rippling against his flagging length with aftershocks, and then he gently pulls out of her. She makes a noise (a whimper? No, not quite so desperate) at the loss, and then pulls him down to cuddle with her, the night air cool on her skin. (The fire keeps the worst of it away, his body providing the rest that she needs. They forgot a blanket, but it doesn’t really matter when she can curl so close to him and steal his warmth.) He missed this about her – behind the cool and calm exterior is a woman who loves to snuggle after sex, and maybe talk nonsense, and show all her inner depths to only those closest to her. (He just missed her, he knows now, unable to recognise at the time that she was the only woman who ever truly understood him. Love is very rarely enough to make it work – they learned that the hard way – but she gives him so much more than that. He has to believe they will last this time, eyes wide open and jumping feet first into this together.)

He holds her close for a while, her head tucked under his chin, fingertips ghosting against ribs and shoulders, and then they move at the same time. He rolls onto his stomach and cushions his head on his forearms, watching as she sits cross-legged and reaches for the pile of clothes, plucking his denim blue overshirt from the pile and sliding into it. She buttons three buttons in the middle of the run, laughing at herself when she realises she misaligned them by one.

“Some mathematician” she says with mirth, but leaves them. It hardly matters when it’s the only thing she’s wearing. He runs a hand over her knee bent nearest to him and grins.

Standing with grace in a swift and single move, her feet make small sounds on the boards as she pads over to the piano and sits. The angle obstructs him, so he flips himself around to place his head closer to the fireplace, resting his cheek on his arms, turned towards her; he can just see her around the leg of the piano, her bare feet resting with practice on the pedals, his shirt just long enough that she can sit on its hem. She looks over at him and smirks; he’s sure his bare arse in the firelight is quite the sight, but he also doesn’t care.

Her fingers glide over the keys, first a slow piece (one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, though she knows he has no idea what it’s actually called) and then something a little lighter and faster, yet still somehow gentle (which he recognises but can’t name – an Etude, maybe?)

She smiles over at him, proving that she knows these pieces from muscle memory, which he finds enchanting.

She goes through at least half a dozen pieces, some of them in their entirety and some not, and he closes his eyes and listens, falling almost asleep. He becomes aware enough to note when she stops, and a moment later he feels her feet either side of his hips, and then she lowers herself over his bare back, covering him in a crouch, her mouth against his ear.

“Bishop” she whispers. He grunts in acknowledgement. “Come to bed”

He groans and goes to roll over. She steps up and shuffles with him, crouching back down over him once he’s on his back. Her hands next to his head bracing her as she leans over, she kisses him, his hands running over her backside, noting that she’s still only dressed in his shirt and nothing else.

She stands back up and steps back, holding out her hands and hoisting him up to stand with her. They pick up the things from the floor, leaving the embers to burn down in the grate, switching off the lamp, and then head to the kitchen where the upstairs staircase starts. He leaves the pizza box and wine paraphernalia on the kitchen table and follows her upstairs, her arms full of clothes. He unashamedly stares at her arse as the shirt moves, revealing it a little with each step. (He could swear she sways her hips just a little more for his benefit too, but she’d never admit to it.)

She tosses the clothes on an armchair in the corner of the master room, including the shirt she’s wearing – uncharacteristic of her, but there’s always the morning in which to clean up – and then they both tumble into bed. It’s a California King (another indulgence she couldn’t say no to when he suggested it), and it feels positively decadent to curl naked under the covers next to him and ponder that perhaps, in the morning, going without clothes could be a greatly beneficial decision.

**_…tbc…_ **


	2. If My Heart Was A House (You’d Be Home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Circle me and the needle moves gracefully – back and forth; if my heart was a compass you’d be north. Risk it all and I’ll catch you if you fall, wherever you go; if my heart was a house you’d be home”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the case of this chapter, I highly recommend listening to the song of the same name by Owl City, because it’s cute as hell and provides the shippy fluffy feels. And although the inspiration for this fic was ‘sex in every room’, the final result is more like ‘sex and its derivatives in every room’. I hope that’s still okay.  
> Enjoy!

**If My Heart Was A House (You’d Be Home)**

He’s late home, as he often is while working this particular job. It’s a solo gig, testing and reinforcing the alarms of a bank in the Mission District. Not particularly challenging work, but the money is good now that he can take legitimate business, and they have a mortgage to pay now, so he doesn’t mind taking the occasional slog.

She’s sitting quietly upstairs, snuggled on the couch in their private lounge room. It’s more of an open nook in the back corner of the top storey, opposite their master suite, but it’s big enough for two couches and a television, and a small bookshelf lines the landing just before it. It’s quiet, and comfortable, and exclusively theirs. (The boys have been banned from this level because they have a whole basement to play in, she says.)

Liz is reading a book, the television on low in the background with an episode of Cheers flickering light around. He stops at the top of the landing and smiles, watching her for a moment as he leans against the supporting wall.

She’s the picture of domesticity, and he loves it.

It still shocks him sometimes; just last week he’d accidently started driving back towards the loft he no longer owns, before he realised he was going in the completely wrong direction and turned around. It’s surreal to drive into their garage and think the big, looming house above him is his – _theirs_ – and that it won’t be taken away from him the moment he slips up. He’s a free man, and as he walks up that first flight of stairs from the garage to the basement and sees the clubhouse all set up in it’s new place, he has to pinch himself. Sometimes there’s the sound of music floating from upstairs; Liz with her students, practicing away in the first finished room of the house. Or he’ll enter the tech room and see Mother tinkering away and know that he’s about to be embroiled in another untidy jaunt with the boys.

He never thought he’d be here. He’d prepared himself for solitude for so long that he’s still adjusting to the safety and security of having a real home.

And then there’s Liz. Cooking dinner and serving it at their kitchen table; bringing a pizza box down to the basement when they’re all working late, sitting with Crease to catch up on the latest; falling asleep beside him without a care in the world.

He wasn’t prepared for her either. Not like this. Not in a normal couple kind of way, with friends and jobs and a mortgage. (Some days it scares the living shit out of him.)  

 She looks up from her book, having heard him ascend the stairs.

“You’re home late” she says with a smile, gently closing her book with her finger still catching her place between the pages. It’s a classic – Dostoyevsky, if he had to guess from the cover – and he smiles and steps forward, pushing himself away from the wall.

He flops into the couch next to her with a quiet sigh. She smiles, places her bookmark in her book, throws it gracefully onto the coffee table, and then turns and looks at him with her feet curled on the couch under her.

“Got it all finished tonight” he says, by way of explanation.

“That’s good”

“It will be better when they wire me my final fees for finishing the job, and then some” he says, rolling his eyes. (She’s been hearing about the manager’s incompetence all week; lack of security, both physical and electronic; no understanding of monitoring systems or alarms; no staff to operate and guard the security station. Bishop practically re-wrote their operations manual as well as upgraded their systems, and then spent a fair amount of time arguing that it should be noted as additional expenditures in his fees. She knows he was waiting with bated breath for this job to be over.)

“It’s all done now” she says in comfort, running her hand through his hair. He places a hand on her leg with a smile.

“Some days I really feel like we should have kept an IOU with the NSA” he says.

She laughs at him. “I don’t know that incompetent bank managers are within their jurisdiction”

“Well they should be” he mumbles, but he’s relaxed now that he’s home, and his gaze is drawn to the television screen. Liz’s hand trails lazily through his hair a couple of times, her eyes still focused on him.

“Are you still enjoying your work?” she asks. To anyone else it would sound like an innocent question; asking him about his day, checking in that he’s happy with the job he just finished, seeing if he’s enthusiastic about the next one. But they have a history, and an unspoken (yet oft spoken about) dual life that demands so much of the both of them. She’s asking if he likes the job, but he can hear underneath that she’s still so uncertain of him; insecure in him staying here happily with her for the long term.

The first- and second-floor bathrooms are gutted, and the kitchen _still_ needs floor tiles (even though they finally replaced the appliances last week); the house perpetually smells of new carpet and plasterboard, and their every spare moment is spent comparing paint swatches in various neutral shades or shopping for the few pieces of furniture they don’t own in storage.

And yet she still doubts him, at least a little. (A lifetime of living in shadows is a hard habit to break, he won’t deny; he still draws curtains tightly closed and hates driving in a car with authentic registration. But he’s _here_ , and he’s _hers_ , and it breaks his heart that their history proves so powerful that a whole house isn’t a big enough gesture to reassure her.

Doesn’t she know that _she_ is his home?)

He sighs good-naturedly, throwing his arm over her head and around her. She shifts to her knees and closer into him, his arms encircling her waist. She leans up against him, and with his hands on her hips she swings one leg over his lap and settles against his thighs, her hands on his shoulders. She gives him a bemused expression, wondering why he needs to have a lap full of her to answer her question, though she’d never complain.

“I love my work” he says softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “And I love this house”

He places his palms against her cheeks. “And I love you”

She smiles at him indulgently, confidently. (If she is insecure, she’s not fully aware of it, and if she does need the occasional reassurance it’s only to encourage him to initiate the kind of intense contact that inevitably leads to her having an earth-moving orgasm.)

“I do know that” she says gently, her hand briefly touching his cheek, her thumb stroking his chin. She got her nails re-done when they moved, shorter now that she’s taking private students and occasionally has to play the piano with them. (She loved her long manicure, but can’t stand the way they ruin her technique and clatter all over the keys when she plays.) Her shorter nails lightly scratch at the five o’clock shadow along his jaw.

“Do you ever doubt it?” he asks. They have to be honest about these things now. (Not being honest hurt them badly the first time, and then broken them firmly apart the second. The truth is their foundation, more than bricks and mortar could ever be.)

“Only briefly. Only when I forget for a second what we’ve been through together”

He smiles at her, almost laughing. Sure, there was always an element of danger in his work before, but gun battles and blind men driving and undercover Russians _is_ as little bit much, even for him.

(He drove her to a shooting range two weeks after it all ended and showed her how to use a pistol. She doesn’t have a desire to repeat any of that nonsense, but given she nearly took out poor Carl the last time she fired a gun haphazardly at the ceiling, they both figured it was a good skill to have anyway.)

“It was something” he says, cocking an eyebrow. His hands move over her hips, up to the bottom of her ribs and back down practically running over her arse then down to her legging-clad legs.

“Trial by fire” she says with a smirk, and that does make him laugh.

“You loved it” he accuses. He flutters his eyes and gives her a look. “Whisper in my ear…” he says in a high airy voice, “… passport”

She laughs at him in outrage and whacks his shoulder, trying to be mad that he dragged her into a ridiculous situation, but far too delighted at the thrill it brought to flirt and fool unsuspecting men. Aside from the bullets flying, it was an exhilarating evening. (She was always drawn to that part of his world; like an adult’s dress-up party.)

“Who knew passports were sexy” he says between laughter.

“I’m always sexy” she says haughtily, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I won’t argue with that”

She smirks at him and then leans in and kisses him firmly, hands on his shoulders. “You sure know how to make a girl feel better” she says with fondness.

“I hope you do feel better”

He sounds so sincere that she smiles. He was never a hard-ass, her Bishop. He always showed his gentler side, and especially to her, in quiet moments and when it truly mattered.

“I know this has been a… transition” he says, his hands once again mapping her hips. “But I don’t want you to doubt for one second that I’m all in. Job, house, _you_ , I want to be here. I really do”

“I know” she says. Her voice sounds whisper soft, and not at all uncertain. They aren’t children; they understand life a lot better than they did when they first met all those years ago, and they wouldn’t have invested so much (figuratively and literally) if they weren’t positive this was the right choice.

It’s still nice to hear it though.

“I love you” she says, just to be sure she’s told him today.

He leans up and finally kisses her, their bodies shifting closer and tighter together until there isn’t a breath between them that goes unshared. He gets lost in just holding her, and she him, and before long their breath comes in raged gasps.

He slides down the couch, keeping her above him, until he lays flat against the arm with her reclining over his body. He grins at her, and she returns the look before resuming her previous activities (that is, rendering him as speechless as humanly possible while keeping her pants on.) His hands run up her back and down again, sneak under her tee-shirt and grip at her skin, leaving it warm and tingling in its wake. Her hips grind without conscious thought into the zip of his jeans, creating a sweet burn without building up for release. It’s anticipatory, and self-indulgent, and absolutely delicious.

“What…” he starts, getting cut off as she kisses him silent, her mouth moving over to his neck and back to his lips, her hand burying in his hair. “What time is your… your first… class tomorrow?”

“Midday” she says, her voice low and breathless. She’s at the school until late tomorrow afternoon, but there’s a senior curriculum meeting of the faculty in the morning. She isn’t obligated to attend since she only works three days and takes the more junior classes. (She won’t get around to explaining all that until late tomorrow morning, when they finally make it out to a very late breakfast at a café down the street.)

“That’s good” he replies throatily, and it makes her laugh loudly at him, carried away as they are, because she can tell she’s kind of ambushed him with her enthusiasm and she’s not the least bit sorry about it. He’s hot and heavy beneath her, the very beginning of an erection trapped in his pants. She likes the potential.

Slowing down her assault, she stretches languidly on top of him and settles down into his chest, propping her chin in her hand to look at him. His hand is still under her shirt, drawing lazy circles along her spine just to feel her shiver. (He’s already figured out that she’s not wearing a bra.)

“This is pretty great, isn’t it?” he says, grinning at her.

She smiles at him – a big, carefree smile, full of unrestrained joy – and nods her agreement. “It really is” she says, and the serenity in her expression makes his chest constrict.

If he ever gets up the courage to ask her to marry him, this is how he’d like to do it; lying together, blissful and warm, no pomp or fanfare; the complete antithesis to the prim and proper woman he knows the world sees in her. This is the true Liz; lazy house clothes, reading Russian literature and cuddling into him like it’s the middle of winter. They hardly need the ring – they both know that this is forever, and neither of them is going anywhere – but he thinks he’d like to be able to call her his wife, just to make the bastards jealous. (He doesn’t know who ‘the bastards’ are, but he’d like to make them jealous all the same, because look at her… _look at her_ , he thinks to himself.

He can’t take his eyes off her. He’d follow her into the sun when she looks at him like that.)

“I’m really glad I get to argue about bathroom tiles with you” he says, just to feel her laughter against his chest. (She doesn’t disappoint.)


	3. Half Of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently this went from ‘sex in every room’ to ‘touching in every room’. There’ll be more sex later, I promise. It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t bring some angst to the table eventually, now would it?  
> I’ve always loved this song, and I feel like it’s particularly apt for Bishop.  
> Enjoy!

**Half Of My Heart**

_You think I like lying to you? It’s my job Liz, and you know that. You knew that the second you signed your name on the dotted line._

He’s not wrong, of course, but even hours later the words still sting in the back of her throat. She does know that his job involves lying, and that some of the deals he takes remain the purview of Martin Bishop, the man from Canada with no true history. She knew when they first started dating that the boys had a set of fake IDs ready to use at a moment’s notice, and she knew this time that Mother’s truck was still unregistered. She suspects, though he wouldn’t tell her for certain, that Crease maintains a small safehouse in case things ever get nasty like they did with that Cosmo business.

She knows all that, in theory, like imaginary numbers.

But the stark reminder still hurts. Even more than it did the first time.

_The exact moment she finds out just how dangerous – how illegal – his work can be, she is standing in her front doorway with a gun in her face._

_It’s October of 1986, and she’s just taken a part-time tutoring job at the conservatory while she finishes her latest CalTech post-doctoral work on the mathematical properties of Mozart’s symphonies. She just bought her first proper flat in San Francisco, and she and Martin have been dating for a little over four months. She even bought an indoor plant, determined to break her unfortunate habit of killing them._

_Given what her life looks like, the gun is a bit of a surprise._

_The men followed the wrong car from the loft and Bishop resolves the whole deal swiftly and with great sheepishness. They ended up closing their deal in her sunken living room, the whole gang there and raring for a fight. She corners Whistler and demands an answer, once she’s had a cup of tea to calm her nerves._

_Bishop asks them all to leave, and then sits down with her and explains what a ‘security technician and adviser’ really does when he’s living under an assumed identity._

_She doesn’t sleep a wink that night, and they take a ten day break while she decides if she cares that her boyfriend – the man she’s rapidly falling in love with – is a criminal and a fugitive._

_The young naïve Liz makes the choice that she doesn’t care, which in and of itself was always a lie._

She walks into his study, still distraught and too overwhelmed to head back upstairs to the main house, where their brand new kitchen floor tiles mock her with their shininess. (It took them two whole months to choose them. She wonders now if it was time wasted; if it really matters that they’re a colour called ‘Ontario’ and not simply ‘white’.)

On Bishop’s desk there is only one personal item; a picture of the two of them taken out the front of their brand new derelict home, matching grins shining in the sun, arms around each other as the sold sign hangs proudly behind them. (Mother had taken the picture, she remembers).

She traces the frame with her finger.

The rest of the desk is littered with schematics and plans, notes and print-outs, and though she can guess well enough at what it would mean, her eyes don’t linger on any one thing long enough. She sees a list of names and positions – shorthand for various manoeuvres known in the business, much like a card shark bluffing a Las Vegas table. It’s enough to bring emotions to the surface, and so she leaves the office and instead stops out in the recreation room; the ‘club house, mark 2’ as Whistler calls it, complete with Bishop’s pool table and a big boxy television in the corner.

A selection of Old Hollywood tapes is stacked next to the couch, probably the work of Carl. It makes her smile to think of her boys all huddled down here watching To Have and Have Not.

Carl isn’t on this job with the rest of them, because his relationship with that NSA girl is still going well, and that should tell her all she needs to know about how legal this contractor’s business is. She trusted Bishop; trusted that the many talks they had and the many years she’s held him in her heart would be enough to make him act responsibly.

But he’s not wrong, either. She did know when they closed on this house and combined their various pieces of furniture that this was his life. And not totally an assumed identity either; Martin Brice was as much a criminal as Bishop, cracking firewalls and going on the run. This life has been in his DNA since he was a boy, and she was foolish enough to think she would be enough – _this_ would be enough – to dissuade him from living for the thrill.

The thrill is fun, she knows. She’s been with them long enough to know that. But it’s also dangerous and uncertain, and when a dead bird gets left in a box on their front step like some James Bond film, it’s downright terrifying.

_It’s just a warning, he says, calm and unworried._

_A warning about what? she replies, eyes wide and afraid, voice shrill. She remembers warnings. Warnings are guns in faces and hands in the air. Warnings are manic ultimatums from men long-dead._

_Don’t stress about it, he tries again, waving her off. Which was the completely wrong thing to say, because of course she was going to stress about dead birds getting left on the doorstep of her home._

_Do you forget I run a school? There are children here, for goodness sake!_

She had always known there were two sides to him; the man she fell in love with, who read books at the fireside and helped her with her coat and laughed easily; and then the man with a haunted look in his eye and a family long dead without a goodbye, and a life lived with one eye open at all times. She had resolved when they got back together the second time to accept it all, not knowing what that fully meant. She had promised again, only a few short months ago, to honour the divide within him. She though she knew what that compromise meant.

Sitting in their basement, on the rugged old couch from the loft,  the hum of a computer whirring on the other side of the room, she knows that until a few hours ago she was still that foolish little girl, hoping to be enough for him. Hoping that when she makes him choose, he chooses her.

_When you walk out that door, Bishop, you make the decision; you pick that work over me. And I’m not going to tell you to stay if you don’t want to, but I am saying that after that, we are not getting back together._

_And then he’d told her he loves her one last time, and closed the door softly behind him. It was three years before she saw him again._

She must have fallen asleep on the couch, dreaming about the last time they broke up, because she wakes with cotton in her mouth and Bishop crouched beside her, running a hand gently over her hair to wake her.

“I was calling for you and you didn’t answer” he whispers, worry reflected in his eyes. “What’re you doing down here?”

She sits up and looks around. The computer still whirs and there’s a sense of late night in the air. She’s not sure how long she slept for, but it must have been a while for him to have left and come back again in a better mood. (He does that – retreats when it’s all too much and he’s afraid of what he’ll say. She wishes he wouldn’t.)

“I was trying to understand” she says, voice husky.

He seems to understand what she means. Lifting himself up, he spins into the sofa next to her, not touching but not far away either as he settles into the cushions. They look out to the recreation room together, the pool table strewn with board games and takeout fliers. He sighs, but he doesn’t apologise.

“I’m never going to be enough, am I?” she asks lowly.

He sags in resignation, letting out a breath. “Liz-“

“I don’t mean it like that” she continues, eyes fixated in a stare somewhere on the floor across the room, unseeing. “I mean, if it was a ‘one-or-the-other’, you’d never be able to… it’s not… there is no choice, as such, is there?”

He thinks he understands what she means. His life is not a series of parts that he can pick and choose as he likes; his sum is greater than that, and to love one piece is to love the puzzle. He wonders what conclusions she has come to while he was out cooling his head. Her tone sounds resigned, but to what he can’t be sure. (He hopes she doesn’t ask him to leave again. He’s not sure his heart could take it again. He wants to be here, he does; he just wants to keep doing his work as well, for as long as he’s able.)

“There’s only so much of your heart in this” she whispers. Her gaze flickers briefly around the room, up to the roof where the rest of the house lies. Her hand reaches across the couch between them and takes his, fingers lacing together.

“Whatever part of me is in this” he says, continuing with her thought, sure now that he sees what she’s saying, or at least has a fair idea. “I’m in all the way”

She hums and nods. She always knew that much; that he adored her, even if she wasn’t his only priority.

“You’re right, Liz, I can’t give you everything. But whatever I can give, it’s yours”

And she can hear what he’s saying – he loves her more than he’s ever loved anything, or will ever love anything. Half of his heart is wholly invested. And it hurts to think it won’t ever be more than that, but the truth is there’s only so much up for grabs, and she has the lot.

(Her mind briefly wanders to Phillip, the physicist she studied with at MIT in the mid-70s. For a year Phillip followed her around like a puppy, taking the same classes and joining a mentoring program with her under Stig Lundgvist, not because he was interested in that area of study, but because he was interested in her. They dated, and for a time she was his whole world; more important than science, or study, or any other person. Aside from being overwhelming, she quickly found him boring. Unoriginal. The shine wore off before he could ask her to move in with him, and she never looked back on that period of her life with anything more than disinterested fondness.

She loved being with Bishop exactly because he was the antithesis of Phillip.

So in reality, she brought this on herself. Naïve little Liz with all her big dreams of happily ever after.)

It was foolish to think a simple staircase up or down could separate two halves of a human whole. She should have known better.

“I will try to be more understanding”, she says, knowing full well that he only left earlier because she set off his bad temper with vicious words. “I’ll do my best to love all of you, even the parts you keep from me”

His fingers squeeze around hers, his body mournful and thankful in the same breath.

“But I don’t think I will ever be alright with dead poultry on my front stoop”

And despite the lingering sadness in the air, he laughs, prompting her face to break out into a mirthful grin. He pulls her into his side, his arm around her shoulders, and she lets him. He plants a kiss in her hair, and she shuffles closer and turns her body into him.

“I promise I’ll try and keep the birds to a minimum” he says, and she knows that he will try and keep the trouble away from the house, if only for her kids.

“Thank you” she says. “And I’m sorry for snapping so badly”

“I did kind of deserve it” he concedes, shrugging one shoulder. “I guess we have to get used to that kind of thing”

“What, the birds?”

“No” he says, chuckling, pulling her closer still. “Not the birds, dummy” 

She pinches his side with a look, but settles back down with him a moment later. “I don’t like fighting” she says.

“Me neither. But I’d rather fight with you than not have you in my life at all”

She has to fight a sudden wave of tears at his sincerity. She reminds herself that she may not have all of him, but that doesn’t make this any less significant; doesn’t mean he isn’t the great love of her life, as she is his. And she hopes she can remind herself of that the next time they argue – as they will – rather than berate him for being exactly the man she chose.

“I love you just the way you are, Bishop. I know it doesn’t seem it today, but I do”

“Warts and all?”

She doesn’t respond, just snuggles against him and sighs when his arms come just as tightly around her. She thinks he may be just as conflicted about this as her, is some ways, and she’s not far wrong. (Some nights he lies awake and wonders if it’s fair to expect her to stay; wonders if he should just give up the covert stuff in order to keep her. And then another part of him feels resentful of that, arguing that he can do far better without her at all, and around the spiral goes, the battle over which side is strongest.

In truth they are equal, which is precisely the problem to begin with.)

But as long as they’re here, talking, and dedicated, they can make it work. She knows they can. And not because ‘love conquers all’ or whatever saccharine crap her mother would love to spin, but because she knew going in what this would be like, and she did it anyway – loved him anyway. And he is dedicated to his life with her, even if he loves his work as well.

They want to be here, and so she will treasure each little piece of his heart that she is given, and give hers freely.


	4. This Love Came Back To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may have been totally influenced by a particularly [steamy picture](http://ellie5192.tumblr.com/post/143425739430) on tumblr and an unhealthy obsession with Taylor Swift’s song This Love. For the floor plan to this place check [here](http://ellie5192.tumblr.com/post/143583897940). It’s pretty sweet.  
> As always, please enjoy!

 

**This Love Came Back To Me**

“You know what your problem is?”

The spray of the water on his face makes his words splutter a little bit. He runs the last of the shampoo out of his hair, wiping his eyes clear as well, and then sways under the spray to warm his exposed shoulder.

“What’s my problem?”

The single greatest feature of their master ensuite will undoubtedly be the double shower, when they finally get around to renovating the upstairs bathrooms. Liz is insisting on two showerheads mounted on opposite walls – something Bishop thinks a little unnecessary and wholly indulgent – but the idea of having their own streams of water to stand under is very attractive. They haven’t got around to it yet; they’re renovating the house in stages, and the fourth level bathrooms were too usable to justify spending limited funds on them, especially when other rooms downstairs were so in need. But their entire living quarters on the top floor is next on the agenda, and he plans to make sure the bathrooms are first to be updated. (Liz loves the water scolding hot under a soft spray and he likes it a little cooler and firm. For now they dance around each other; it’s not so bad, he thinks – if a little warmer than he prefers.)

“A complete lack of imagination”

She chuckles at him, the way he imagines a politician may chuckle at the joke of someone they don’t like very much. It’s a little unnerving just how quickly the mental image comes to him of Liz in a business suit standing in the Mayor’s office debating policy with a guy who looks suspiciously like Werner. (He extrapolates further and imagines her verbally wiping the floor with the guy, a smug grin on her face. Suddenly he thinks it’s a shame she was never a poli-sci wonk.)

“I have plenty of imagination” she says. “I just don’t think your idea is very good”

He scoffs at her as he moves around to let her under the spray and he watches as she rinses out her own hair, eyes closed and head tilted back. (There’s a lingering smirk on her face which he dutifully ignores, because they both have too healthy an ego for him to comment on it.) The movement of her raised arms creates a tantalising view of her breasts, but given they spent the better part of the morning in bed he’s not feeling at all neglected; he’ll call it the dénouement to their earlier activities and try to keep his hands to himself. (The conclusion is yet to come, so to speak, and he almost laughs at his own mental pun.)

“My plan is not the issue here” he says. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s foolproof”

“Fool-proof, yes; but it’s not Mother-proof”

He makes a face. “I didn’t think of that”

She merely gives him a look, but graciously refrains from saying _I told you so_. But just barely.

“Not to mention” she says, fiddling just a little more with her hair. “Hiding clues around the house so he can go on a treasure hunt for his birthday present is only going to piss Crease off. He doesn’t even like birthdays”

“He doesn’t like getting old – there’s a difference”

She smiles because she knows he’s right, and reaches for the conditioner.

“Well, whatever the reason, you know Mother will find half your clues before you even finish creating them”

Bishop sighs and nods, knowing once again she’s right. He moves to leave, quickly dropping a kiss on her wet shoulder first. She grins at him, scrunching her nose and holding back a giggle as she squirts the conditioner into her palm. He steps one foot out the door and goes to reach for a towel just as she raises her arms again to apply the conditioner; he is overcome by the sight, and instead of leaving he reopens the glass door and steps right back into the spray with her, his arms framing her hips so neither of them slip.

“What are-?”

“It’s too cosy in here with you to leave yet”

She looks at him in bewilderment, which quickly melts away to fondness. He is by far the more affectionate one, but as a recipient she is more than willing to play along with his sweet ideas; he always manages to surprise her with the moments he chooses to show it. She likes to think she’s not nearly so obvious, but already her lovely students ask her questions about when she and Bishop are going to get married. She’s embarrassed to own up to the little flutter her heart gives when she gets the brief mental image of the two of them dressed in matching black and white, posing in front of church. (Not that they would necessarily get married in a church. Or at all. With all the money being injected into this house they’d be lucky to scrape together the measly marriage license fee. But she can admit – if only to herself – that she sometimes thinks about it, in the same way she thinks about a lot of things now that she can.)

So much of the pain in their shared history relates directly to his inability to be fully invested in a life with her; the burden his false identity brought was the limitations it set on their future. Now that they can share a mortgage, car insurance, a home business and a silly, half-baked idea to turn half of downstairs into that ridiculous little bookstore they once talked about… well, now she can entertain those other future plans too, fleeting though they may be. She sometimes still worries about the jobs he does, but she no longer worries about whether or not he’s coming home to her; they have a plan, a direction, and finally the stars have aligned to allow them to explore it all together.

So it’s not like being married to Bishop would be entirely awful. Her mother would certainly be pleased at the very least.

“You are utterly ridiculous, you know that?” she says to him with a smile. She nudges him with her elbow, since her hands are still coated in conditioner.

He smiles at her in that soft way that is utterly Bishop. “I sure do. Turn around”

She rolls her eyes, but complies anyway, shifting so the water can hit them both a little bit. His hands come up and run through her hair, combing the conditioner through as he slowly rinses it out, mindful that she doesn’t like to get it right on the roots. Her hair is getting longer – almost past shoulder length now, and styled with the requisite layers through the front. It makes her face softer – gentler than the very short cut, though she insists she’s going to cut it back to that length for the convenience.

He hopes she doesn’t. Not because she doesn’t look gorgeous either way; he just likes the world to see the true Liz, with her big heart and dry wit. Her reserved persona is a true part of her, but not the sum of her; the boys like to joke that she’s a prude, but really Bishop knows it’s a defence – a natural distance she puts there for her own reasons, and perhaps he was one of those reasons at one point along the way, but he is also one of the few to see completely past it now. He likes that the rest of the world gets a glimpse of that too, and if that’s through a hairstyle then so be it; not everyone can be privy to her dance moves, after all. Plus, he’s heard more than one of her young female protégées compliment her when she wears it down, insisting that they’d like to style it for her or start a braid chain with half the class. Liz just laughs and asks if they’ve been practicing their scales. But she will always wear her hair down again the next class whenever they mention it, so Bishop thinks she’s more flattered than she lets on.

He spins her around in the shower and frames her with his arms, continuing to run the conditioner out with his fingertips, although it’s mostly done by now. Liz lets him, silent, a strange look on her face that he knows well – a depth of thought there far beyond the surface. (That was always the other aspect to her that he liked to see beyond; sternness not for the sake of being prim, but to hide a racing mind lost deep in music or mathematical theory, teeming with post-doctoral ideas. A mind near anxiety if not for the peace and focus her music brings, and the joy teaching brings to her spirit. He doesn’t think she would have lasted as a mathematician, even if she had been inclined to pursue it, not least because all the maths professors he has ever met were wound tighter than a spring.

Liz may be _anal_ , but he’s also seen her curled fast asleep on the club house couch with her head on Mother’s knee, Full House reruns playing while Carl and Mother play a game of Go Fish in the space around her.

A capable mind led by a gentle heart; that’s his estimation.)

She must notice his mind has wandered, because she meets his eye with more insistence, her gaze beseeching. He smiles at her, returning to himself.

Without preamble she stretches up and kisses him, fully, her arms wrapping up around his waist, her fingers splaying on his back and pressing into the divots between his ribs. He’s surprised, but recovers quickly. His hands leave her hair, framing her neck, holding her steady, as his lips runs a track down her jaw, down further to her neck, finding the same pulse point he was exploring so thoroughly in bed not very long ago. She pants into the kisses but doesn’t outright moan, and he knows that she’s enjoying herself but still aware of her surroundings; conscious not to fall. The embrace is heated; sensual but without expectation – lost in the moment without being out of control. The warmth of the water hits their shoulders equally, the both of them careful not to slip in the old porcelain tub.

“This is not conducive to getting motivated” she says through her heavy breathing, her voice pitched low.

“Do you care?” he mutters against her skin. He was the one who had eventually conceded that they should get up and perhaps spend a rare Sunday out in town deciding on new drapes for their master room (when they actually get around to starting it; when they’re no longer sleeping on her old box spring and mattress stacked on bare floor with no carpet. When the stripped walls looks like a master suite and not the skeleton of a half-conceived room. Some days he wonders why the hell they chose to buy a gutted and unfinished dump, even if the transformative process of self-renovating it together seems cheekily metaphorical. When it’s finally finished – from garage to top floor, four storeys of perfect rebuilt home complete – he’ll be glad of it.) The shopping is just an excuse to spend valuable time together, but he knows she gets antsy just sitting around the house the whole weekend, and with the morning quickly fading into afternoon he’d been the one to suggest they ‘get motivated’. He’s starting to regret that decision now, when she’s naked and wet in his arms.

“Not particularly, no” she says, shaking her head as his hands run down her back to grip her backside firmly. He pulls her close to him so she can feel his stirring erection. She pushes herself more firmly against him just to tease. They both know he won’t get all the way hard again so quickly, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the in between that counts just as much.

Her hands run lower, framing his hips as his lips ascend to hers once more, via her jaw, her ear, across her cheek. The feeling is captivating, drawing her so thoroughly into a deep and overwhelming sensation of just being; of existing in this moment with him, without another thought in the world.

That is, until very suddenly and without warning, the water goes ice cold.

“Holy shit” he yells, and Liz lets out a high-pitched shriek as she jumps out of the cubical. She almost takes the door off its hinges in the process, but she makes sure to leave space for Bishop to follow her out, and wraps herself in the largest bath sheet she can find as he turns the water off.

For a few moments they stand there trying to rid their skin of the cool droplets.

They haven’t yet replaced the hot water system, since not all the bathrooms – or their temperamental plumbing – have been upgraded. There’s a time limit on the length of showers until they do, which they had naturally forgotten in their activities. (She likes to count the length of their kisses in heartbeats and hickeys, not minutes of hot water left.)

“I think the house is trying to tell us something” he says, rubbing off the cold water from his skin with his own towel, shivering from the sudden change in temperature as he wraps it around his waist and tucks it into itself.

“Not to get frisky in the shower?” she asks incredulously. She wraps her hair in a smaller towel expertly, keeping the bath sheet firmly over her shoulders. “Well the house better listen up right now…”

He just laughs at her.

She walks into him, snuggling close while holding her towel up over herself, demanding affection. His arms come around her and he runs his hands quickly up and down her back in a gesture of comfort.

“I think that’s our cue to stop fooling around” he says with a smile.

“This bathroom really does need to be the very first thing we work on up here” she says, a tone of defeat in her voice.

“Didn’t I say-”

“Yes yes, alright”

He grins at her in that charismatic way as she moves to step away with an eyeroll. He holds her in place and kisses her again, softer than before. Her hands unfurl from where she’s huddled into herself, her palms landing flat on his chest as she responds to the kiss, the frame of his arms holding her towel around her.

“Have I ever told you how glad I am to be building a house with you?” he asks.

She smiles. “It’s not really building, as much as renovating-”

“Will you ever not argue with me?”

She just laughs at him, and at the indignant look on his face. “I think we can safely assume I will always argue with you, Bishop”

The name has stuck, because he is one and the same, and truly what is in a name anyway. She calls him Bishop because she always has, just as the other boys in his club have their lasting nicknames too. He never seems to mind.

“I kind of like it” he says with a playful grin. She makes a face and smirks at him right back. She knows that; he does it often enough and with gusto; there must have been some sick pleasure in it for him.

“I like being dressed”

He sighs, kisses the tip of her nose, and then lets her go. She shivers once and then walks towards the door to the bedroom. Their large closet is just outside. Before she can leave completely, she turns and frames the doorway with her hand, leaning against it with her upper body.

“Bishop?”

He turns and looks at her; the distinct unsureness in her voice and her suddenly timid body language gives him pause. Liz is rarely so quiet.

“Yeah?” he asks, listening closely.

Her face takes on that familiar quality again, of being deeper in her mind than he can fathom, and of thoughts racing too far ahead for her to capture any single one. Her eyes flicker to him and away and back to him, and he thinks maybe she’s contemplating just how much to say. They are brutally honest with each other these days, but they also have such a rich history to navigate. No longer children, it can be difficult to articulate the multitude of feelings that accompany any one moment.

She finally meets his eye, a flicker of a smile in her features when she sees him standing there; unmoving even as her mind cannot stand still.

“I kind of like arguing with you too” she says with a sheepish grin.

And he just grins right back at her. The tenderness in his eyes gives away the depth of his own emotion, and the love he feels for her in any random moment of the day.

“Then let’s keep arguing” he says in response.

She laughs lightly at him, nodding and resting her temple against the doorway as well. Her body is dry now, after standing around long enough in the towel. She hadn’t really been paying attention to that. She stands with a smile on her face, looking him in the eye with a tender sort of ferocity; unbridled emotion with a surety of purpose to hold it steady in the tempest.

“I’m glad we got back together” she says softly, not a hint of joke in her tone.

“Me too” he says, with equal feeling.

They hold each other’s gaze just a fraction longer before she nods at him once and then abruptly turns, making her way into the walk-in robe to find the day’s outfit. He watches the place she had been standing, his mind going back into that place it goes sometimes when he allows himself to ponder on their journey. So many tiny steps and big decisions and he ended up in this half-broken bathroom in an old Victorian in the middle of San Francisco, living with the only woman he’s ever truly loved and thought he’d lost forever.

It strikes him anew to think of how this life fell into his lap. His heart clenches as he thinks, just today, to hold it a little tighter in gratitude.


	5. My Only Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's late; just beyond midnight. Those left at the clubhouse are all pacing and waiting and tapping their pens; a cacophony of anxiety borne of the late hour and the knowledge that their leader is (once again, presumably) in dire straits."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this instalment has been very long in the making, but a recent re-watch of this movie in full helped light a fire under my arse. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy.

**My Only Weakness**

_…is knowing your secrets; I’m holding them close and I’m holding them tight._

It's late; just beyond midnight. Those left at the clubhouse are all pacing and waiting and tapping their pens; a cacophony of anxiety borne of the late hour and the knowledge that their leader is (once again, presumably) in dire straits. Mother's hand come out of nowhere, a mug of tea offered to her where she sits on the couch, mindlessly watching a midnight movie. Liz thanks him with a false smile, and he pats her back twice in solidarity.

"Crease is with him" he says, and though it doesn't make her feel better, she appreciates the effort. They were expected back just before dinner.

The knock on the basement side door is not wholly unexpected.

Liz just barely manages to not burn her hand as she places her mug on the table and rushes forward. Karl flings the door open and Crease comes rushing through, Bishop's arm up over his shoulders; he's holding a cloth to his eye with his free hand.

"We need ice" says Crease, and Karl rushes to the side cabinet to get it from the small bar fridge inside. (It should shock her, but it doesn't, that one of the first things they brought over to the new clubhouse was the first aid kit. Between Whistler's frequent self-electrocutions and Mother's propensity to break things, it's any wonder there's supplies left. The fridge had been intended as practical storage, but so far only houses a six pack, ice packs, and Mother's sandwich)

Crease dumps Bishop on the couch with a thump and a groan from them both, and Liz kneels into his vision instantly.

“What happened?” she asks him, looking furious and upset at the same time. There’s a storm in her eyes that he recognises as Liz in teacher mode; that interesting mix of caring and utility that only the wrangler of children can muster in a time of crisis.

“The guy slugged me” he says. He takes the icepack that Karl offers and places it on his eye. There’s a cut on his brow – probably where a ring connected with his face – but it has stopped bleeding and can be attended to once the swelling goes down a little.

“A little more than a slug” adds Crease, pointing at what is an obviously fractured rib with the way Bishop is holding himself. Martin just gives him a look of mock thanks, as though to say _I’m in enough trouble already_ , but Crease knows there is no point keeping it from her. Liz pulls up his shirt on one side and sure enough it’s already starting to bruise.

“You should go to the hospital” she says, looking at him now with less anger and more worry.

“I’m fine. It was just one good punch from a goon at the door”

“But that bruise-“

“There’s nothing they can do for a fractured rib that I can’t do here for myself. Wrap me up and send me on my way with a bill for my troubles? No thanks”

She knows he’s right; she broke her toe once, went to Emergency, and all they did was splint it with the next one and charge her a week’s wage for the bandage. She knows enough first aid to take care of him here, and he’s been in enough scuffles to know what to expect. Still, there is a feeling that this shouldn’t be happening (didn’t he go legitimate so this wouldn’t happen? didn’t he promise her no more birds on their doorstep?) and she’s mad about that.

“Another disgruntled client?” she asks with bite, pulling the ice away from his brow to check the wound hasn’t opened again. It hasn’t.

“No. Another disgruntled employee, whose side business of grifting the boss was discovered when we took the liberty of installing electronic firewalls on his accounting software”

She nods in understanding; not quite as bad as the boss ordering his thugs to sic ‘em, but still… it doesn’t necessarily make her feel better.

"Ended up staying back to work on the anomaly - took a few hours to work out it was him on another computer. When we did…"

He gestures vaguely to himself.

“Did you at least get paid on time for this one?” she asks.

Crease pulls out a cheque from his inner coat pocket.

“I’ll bank it tomorrow” he says, “and make sure they clear your half into your account”

She gives her nod of thanks, and mutters a _thank you_ for good measure. She doesn’t want to sound callous, but their beautiful home has a mortgage, and more than once Bishop has had to chase unruly clients for their full payment. If he's going to endure a fractured rib, it can at least come with consolation of timely payment.

“Fellas, I think there’s been more than enough excitement for one night” she says, and she looks at Crease beseechingly. The downstairs floor has a spare room for whenever the boys want to crash at the clubhouse, but tonight she just feels like bandaging up Martin and putting them both to bed, and with the way his ribs are they may well be taking the downstairs room for themselves. It's two long flights of stairs to their bedroom on the third level.

Crease, to his credit, understands what she’s asking and wordlessly agrees. He gets to work rounding up the rest of them, ushering them all out for the evening; they all chorus goodbyes, but nobody lingers, and in a few short moments the basement exit closes behind them.

Liz runs her hand gently through Bishop's hair, her worry easing as she settles into the familiar feeling of resignation.

"Can you make it upstairs?" she asks softly.

"If you think for one second I'm sleeping on the same sheets that Mother occupies every other night…"

She laughs softly - barely a chuckle - but agrees with him. Those beds are due for a clean and their California King upstairs is just so lovely and comfortable.

"I think I'll manage the stairs" he adds, holding out his arm for her to help him up. She grasps his upper arm firmly and hauls, trying not to yank him hard enough to jostle his ribs. He can walk by himself (maybe Crease was just being dramatic when he half carried him in earlier), and so she leaves him to waddle gingerly towards the first staircase as she raids the first aid cupboard. She takes out a large bandage, a couple of butterfly clasps, plasters and antiseptic cream for the cut. Walking slowly behind him she follows him up the first flight of stairs and into the kitchen. She deviates just long enough to collect a second icepack and a tea towel, and then she follows him up the second flight of stairs and onto their private landing.

He walks into the bedroom and lowers himself slowly onto the bed with a hiss. She unceremoniously dumps her armful on the bed beside him and turns on the bedside lamp.

"Okay. Shirt off first" she says. Mercifully it's a button-down. She takes her time undressing him and wrapping him up with the bandage - gives him the second ice pack wrapped in the tea towel to put on his ribs. When she's done with that she helps him into a night shirt (another button down, and though he's usually a tee-shirt and boxers kind of guy, she bought him a nice pair of matching pyjamas for Christmas, and it's paying off now). Liz ducks into the ensuite to wet the corner of a face cloth, and then gently and with great familiarity, she starts to clean up the cut on his brow. She dabs on some antiseptic cream for good measure and places the plaster on gently, caressing the tabs down onto his skin.

He watches her the whole time with reverence; notes the way she tends to him with certainty while still being gentle, hears the little sounds she makes when she's comforting him. He doesn't necessarily like being her patient, or being injured, but it does give him a rare opportunity to watch her without any expectation of reciprocal care; to observe the way she moves without having to move himself, and allow her to be up close and inspect him without there being connotations of anything else. She looks so different to when he first knew her - the light softens her, but she is still older, her lines a little sharper, but her shoulders are also more relaxed than they were back then. She'd been in flux when they first met, transitioning into music full time after years trotting the global finance markets, working algorithms for the World Bank.

They had been fast-paced and explosive the first time they were together, a little more subdued yet still passionate the second time. In the end they had broken up because he couldn't give her what they had wanted - what they now have in this house; a firm foundation and a sense of normalcy. (He doesn't think broken ribs are necessarily part of that normalcy, but it's a step in the right direction away from NSA threats to life. Likewise, though she never said as much in all the time they were together, Bishop always imagined she wanted a family; perhaps the children at the school became her surrogate. In any case, it’s more than he could ever have given her back then.)

She places what is left of her supplies on the side table on his side of the bed. He has pain killers in the top drawer and half a glass of water left over, probably from the previous night. He can't be bothered replacing it - he can deal with day-old water. He opens the draw, takes out two pills, downs it with the water and then looks at her for her next instructions.

He stands up and drops his pants, flicking his feet out of his shoes at the same time. It surprises him which movements hurt his ribs and which don't; he hisses sharply when he sits again a little too hard.

Liz goes to pull back the blanket and Bishop takes her wrist, sliding his hand until it takes hers gently.

“You know when you asked me if my whole heart was in this?" he asks, recalling a conversation that never quite sat right even when it was happening. "When you said you understood that not all of me was here… with you?”

“Yes” she says, not a hint of pain or resentment in her tone. She nods once, curiosity in her gaze. Maybe she thinks he's about to defend what happened tonight, but already his mind is racing ahead. A thousand thoughts come forth unbidden, none of them firmly clear but all of them screaming that tonight should not have happened, and that he can’t afford to continue to allow it to happen.

“You were wrong" he says.

She sits by his side on the bed, holding his hand more firmly. She is listening intently with a frown on her face.

"I didn’t argue it then – I thought you were right about me. But you’re not"

He's staring at the carpet, a rhythmic beat thrumming in his side with his wound despite the ice. Perhaps this job carries inherent risk, even when it's conducted above board, but the nonsense tonight just reaffirmed what he had been pondering already; that he has yet to take full advantage of the greatness his new-found freedom can bring to his life, or the opportunities it opens to him. He had thought he was a glutton for punishment and danger; that it was hardwired into him from the time he was a young man cracking codes for fun. But no, not quite. Tomfoolery, perhaps, but not risk seeking. Morality over law; justice for the underdog. But he doesn’t have that particular gene that demands unnecessary hazard for no gain. He didn’t get a thrill from tonight; he got a little beating and a lot of worry for those around him.

He shakes his head at being so mistaken.

"I’ve been running from myself for so long I had almost forgotten what I really wanted" he continues, rubbing his fingers over her knuckles and then looking down at their joined hands. "I had almost forgotten what our dreams were the first time we were together”

She sighs deeply, sagging to the side, and he can feel the full weight of her unlived lives in the way her body presses against him. “I wanted you to commit, but I understood why you couldn’t" she says, still without bite. "I don’t blame you for that”

He shakes his head, looks up at her face, sees that she's staring at the floor a world away. She doesn't look at him, though he is sure she can feel his gaze on her.

“That was then" he says. "But it’s different now – we’re different. My name is on the deed to this house, my business is legitimate and my record is clean. You teach both at the school and from home just like you always wanted to”

She sighs again, and this time meets his eye. She looks, if not outright annoyed, then frustrated by his line of questioning; she's not one to dwell or reminisce, and he knows he's lucky that he was able to walk back into her life the way that he did. She's trying to indulge him without getting mired down in _what if_ s.

“Martin, where is this coming from?”

He doesn't like the idea of having this kind of conversation while sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed. _Come on_ he mumbles, scotching her to move up and recline with him on the bed, pillows fluffed behind their backs for comfort. She settles against his uninjured side, careful not to place her arm over him in a way that will put more pressure. He keeps his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close to his side, despite the discomfort.

“You’ve always wanted this life, Liz" he says. "This normal, picturesque life and now for the first time I can give it to you"

She hums happily. They're both equally proud of the home they're building here together.

"But more than that," he continues, "for the first time I want that too; I want all of it. No more coming home in the middle of the night, no more close calls. I’m giving up the side business, I’m going straight and narrow”

She sits up, still mindful of him, and looks at him square in the eye. He doesn't move, barely even blinks. This isn't a profound speech born of fear for his life tonight - he was in a scuffle, but they've certainly seen worse. No, this is him finally realising that he can't continue to live between realities; to sit on the fence between the man on the run and the man settling down. Why else would he work so hard to restore his name if not to embrace every mundane, ordinary aspect of real life? Why else would he work so hard to be here with Liz, if not to commit to her the way his former existence never allowed him to do?

“You have to be sure you’re doing this for you, Martin" she says lowly. "Don’t do this to impress me. I still love you either way. I’m still _here_ , either way”

And that, he thinks, is the problem. They imploded and then broke apart once before, because he couldn't have this talk or promise these things. There is no coating it with nicety; his life on the run nearly ruined them for good, and he's old enough, and just about tired enough, to want to end it for good. Sneaking - the brand they were doing for years anyway - is a young man's game. He has a lifetime of playing spy under his belt for posterity, and now it's time to change direction, just like a younger Liz did for herself when she wanted more music in her life.

“You’ve been waiting for too long already” he says, and tucks a strand of her still-getting-longer hair behind her ear.

“I don't… understand what you're saying” she says, seeing more in his words; sensing a layer he's not articulating.

He wants to sit up, to hold her, to look her right on and make her understand the depth of his words, but the throbbing in his side reminds him to take it easy, so instead he takes her hand again.

“When we first met, you were changing your life – you were getting out of the World Bank and the corporate life, and you decided to settle here and teach music. You made a choice to go after what you wanted. And I couldn’t give it all to you then…"

He watches her bow her head a little, breaking eye contact. She isn't one to dwell, but the past still echoes in her bones like anyone else. The late night talks between them in the early days, of changing direction and opening herself to new possibilities, and fantasising that a life away from jet-setting corporations might allow her to get married, have children, and work a little from home. All of these private thoughts she had once shared with him come swelling to the surface, and she feels bare under the weight of how deeply he knows her.

"… I can now" he finishes. She looks up at him. "If you wanted more… if you want the marriage and the family and a real suburban life… I will do that for you, in a heartbeat. You waited long enough for me, Liz… it’s your turn now, and whatever you want I want to give it to you”

She looks dumbfounded, and very confused. It's not like him - no, this kind of compulsive emotional decision is exactly like him. More like, it's not something she had allowed herself to consider. She had long ago accepted that certain things wouldn't be available to her - that she may never get married, and that certainly she had never met a man besides Bishop that she would want to have children with; that she would want to do any of this domesticity with, to be frank. That he's coming to her now, just as she'd gotten used to silencing her biological clock, and sacrificing wedding plans for bathroom fixtures (which are finally, mercifully, installed) almost makes her angry. How dare he deny her for so long only to have such an epiphany now, and how foolish was she to think he wouldn't come around, and how many years have they wasted…

And yet… it gives her pause. Here is Martin - she swore herself off him so vehemently, and fell back into love with him just as fast, if she had ever stopped loving him at all. And he is offering her every tiny dream that had felled them years ago. Here is Martin, and her heart wants to take him in her arms and get started on that family right this very second. She squeezes his fingers and then lowers herself back into his side with a gentleness that doesn't give away the thump of her heart.

“Let me think about it” she says. But she has tears pricking her eyes and a smile on her face when his arm comes up and runs through her hair.

“Take all the time you need" he says, kissing her crown.


	6. ... and flowers in your hair.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She has come to appreciate their paths taken, and to make peace with how they came to be in this house, in this moment, free of the difficulties that stopped them before. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my loyal readers. This fic has been a labour of love, and been a slow process of research, house remodelling, rewatching the movie and reading the accompanying book. You've all remained so patient with me, and encouraging of the work. I hope you've enjoyed the story here, and I can't wait to write more for these two. As always, enjoy!

_- &-_

_… and flowers in your hair._

_- &-_

"I'm thinking of changing around downstairs. Installing a proper boardroom down there so I can stop having business meetings at coffee shops"

Liz looks up from her morning paper, and watches him standing there in the light of the large kitchen window, and she smiles. Her breath very nearly catches at the sight of him - as it often does - dressed in his casual jeans and tee shirt, one leg kicked over the other as he leans against the bench and sips his coffee.

"If you think it's for the best, you do what you need to do with it" she says.

For the most part, companies ask to see Martin at their own offices, so they can get initial negotiations and site inspection over and done with in the same afternoon. It's only for private clients who seek him out that Martin has to arrange a place to meet, and there are enough quiet lunch spots in the city to choose from in those cases. But to have their own boardroom again - a designated room separate from the chaos of Whistler's equipment; it tells her just how much he's been thinking about this "straight and narrow only" path they've been set on these past weeks.

They've just finished renovations, but so much of that was cosmetic; updating the cupboard doors or replacing the bannisters. A lick of paint here, a new faucet there, ripping up old carpet and staining the boards underneath. The biggest works they did was gutting and replacing the worn old kitchen and bathrooms, but even that was superficial, not so much changing things around as updating them. It was still hard and costly work, but not really on the scale of knocking down walls and changing the floorplan.

"It would just be one wall in and out - open my office up and then wall across the front of the rec area" he says, his body holding more tension than his casual stance would give away. But she can read him, she can see he's nervous to mention this to her.

He's talking about formalising the space - transforming it from the glorified man cave it currently is (with all that junk spread over every surface) and giving it some semblance of order and professionalism. Martin's work has always spoken for itself, and clients regularly refer their friends. Now, though, he's trying to meet her at her level - turn his space into the equivalent of her organised school space on the first floor. Perhaps part of him wants to impress her, or perhaps he wants to see just how formal he can make this business before driving himself mad. Whatever the reason, he's trying new things because he can, and seems to be revelling in the process, so she's not going to argue with his plans at all. She smiles and takes a sip of her coffee to hide it.

"Would you keep the boy's bedroom as it is?" she asks, referring to the bedroom at the back of the basement that's jam-packed with spare beds for them all.

"Oh yeah. Can't change too much too soon" he says. She gives a knowing look. "Besides, where else is Mother supposed to pass out when he comes over here to hide out?"

"Good point"

He can tell she's indulging him, and he likes her for it; she always enjoyed teasing him just the right amount.

"The work space down there has its own side door. It would mean I can bring clients right into the boardroom instead of leading them past the pool table"

She chuckles at him. She does remember one client being particularly critical of the rec space, taking it as an indication of a lack of work ethic. It is a lot of wasted area though, or at least the room is not utilised to its full potential. By putting in the wall and making everything more compact, it might force them to use it in full, instead of leaving a lot of empty corners and dead floor space. She suffers the same problem upstairs, in the absence of the small library they wanted to open - a lot of area for her students to sit and conduct music lessons, but a lot of that middle floor remains underused. Maybe this will be the motivation she needs to finally install those bookshelves and get going on the library.

"I agree with you" she says. "That new set up would be quite professional. Really give it a corporate feel"

"And none of the walls are loadbearing so it would be super easy" he adds. He looks sheepish a moment later; he's done a lot more research into this than he's willing to admit.

She sizes him up with fondness. "You've really given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

He smiles. "I have"

"And we can afford it?"

"I've already costed it with our carpenter. It's two days work, provided we're happy to order pre-made glazing panels and can paint it ourselves once installed"

She gives him an impressed look. He really did his homework before coming to her about this. Typical Bishop, really, she should have known. She takes in what he said - glazing means he wants at least half the dividing wall panels to be windows like the old loft, which makes sense to let natural light through that bottom floor. Pre-made might be tricky as it requires standard sizing, but she knows Bishop will have thought of that too. And what's a coat of paint, really? Between him and the boys, they'd have it done in an hour.

"Well then. I suppose I better hope you don't accidentally go knocking down our house" she says, and grins at him. He grins too, then it turns into a full-blown smile, before settling back into a look of pure delight, all without saying a word - understanding, acceptance, happiness, just the way she likes it. They really are getting good at it.

"You really are set on going straight, aren't you?" she asks a moment later, eyeing him when he goes to the fridge to dig out some yoghurt.

He turns back to face her, a small tub of Yoplait and a teaspoon in his hand. He gives the question a moment's thought as he meanders to the breakfast table to sit with her.

"For the first time in my life I feel settled" he says, sitting in the chair near hers, bumping her knee with his own as he shuffles forward. "I'm not just content, I feel like I can… breathe"

She reaches over to him and takes his hand in hers. This is a revelation to him, and that makes her sad. He was always a guarded soul - always looking over his shoulder and being cautious. She'd known that about him the moment they met, and she has seen the day-to-day tole it took when they were together before. But it's only seeing him like this - seeing him now with lighter shoulders and features truly relaxed - that she can weight up how damn tiring it must have been to carry his secret around alone, not even confiding in his closest friends. She was always the exception - the one person he finally opened up to - and though she had cherished the secret he had trusted her with, she didn't know (couldn't know) the true burden of it. More and more she can view those times in a new light, with the wisdom of hindsight and understanding easing the ache of those memories. Sometimes it feels like time wasted - that they could have been married with children by now, if only they'd moved forward then.

But then, it must have happened this way for a reason. Cosmo coming back, Janek's box, the Russians… so many events converged and unfolded in exactly the right way to bring about Martin's unconditional pardon. They couldn't have done this back then, and that was exactly the problem.

She has come to appreciate their paths taken, and to make peace with how they came to be in this house, in this moment, free of the difficulties that stopped them before.

"I meant what I said, Liz. I'm really looking forward to giving this a proper shot with you"

"I know you are" she says, running her hand over his forearm.

"No more half-assing it with one foot in the door and one foot out" he continues, his mouth full of yoghurt as he waves his teaspoon in the air. "I'm ready to just… go for it. You inspired me, you know"

"Me?"

"Yeah. When we first met you had completely turned your life around. You gave up the corporate life jet-setting around Asia. You went after your music, which you truly loved, and you didn't look back"

"Well, it wasn't as easy as all that" she says, but the truth is she had been paid very good money with the World Bank, and in her early thirties was primed for a life change, and so it was easier than for most to turn her back on the money and return to her childhood love of music. It had been nagging at her for a while - a sense that her fabulous life was not quite what she wanted - and perhaps some of that had been coming home to roost, but ultimately the passion for music drove her. He'd met her in the midst of her settling down into that life, so it was intriguing to watch him now go through that same transformative process.

"Maybe not. But you made it look effortless" he says, scraping out the yoghurt container with his spoon. "Or at least… I don't know, you looked so content doing it. And I think I understand what that must feel like, and now I'm ready to do it myself. Finally"

She looks at him in a way that feels invasive - reading him like a book. "And I'm right there with you" she says.

One step at a time. He is committed to making this business model work, and to developing a reputation in corporate circles which includes, apparently, having a proper boardroom again. Martin is still adjusting to this life of certainty, just as she is adjusting to having him around all the time and living with a man and tutoring at home like she always meant to do. They've jumped head first into this, and after several months it finally feels like the foundations have settled and they're getting the hang of it. Maybe that's why he wanted to bring this up now - maybe that's where this newfound courage has come from; the bedrock is solid and they can start to build on it now.  

She stands up and picks up her coffee cup as she goes, taking it to the sink to rinse out. "I'm going to go check my schedule for the day" she says to him, and runs her hand over the back of his neck as she passes him to attend her study just next door. He shivers a little under her touch (her hands are cold) and a jolt of arousal runs through him. He takes a moment to finish his tiny yoghurt tub, then promptly disposes of it, throws the teaspoon in her mug in the sink, and follows the path she took.

He finds her in the study, standing behind her desk in the middle of the room, her back to a large window, and examining her open daily planner. She's fastidious about it, filling in every little engagement. It's not that she's forgetful, she just likes the organisation - every day, almost down to the hour, is accounted for, even if it's a very definitive _nothing_.

"You look good" he says, leaning against the doorway. Liz looks up at him and grins. She hasn't showered yet, still wearing black leggings and an oversized jumper that comes down to her mid-thigh. It was the first outfit she saw, thrown over the little chair in their room from the night before.

In an instant her look turns wicked. "You don't look so bad yourself there"

She slowly, teasingly makes her way around to the front of her desk and leans against it, her hands either side of herself, one leg cocked up in a coquettish fashion. She's half teasing, half serious, and he's not certain which he wants to win, but either way there's only one thing to do. It's early, the morning sun still trying to show through the windows - nowhere to be and nobody to see for a couple of hours yet.

He pushes himself forward and stalks slowly towards her, one eyebrow cocked just slightly in challenge, meeting her mood as her grin turns playful. He walks up to her until he's so close he forces her back onto the desk. Gently, so as not to knock things over, he pushes her diary and a few papers out of the way, and she slides up onto the desk, her legs opening so he can stand between them. His hands find the small of her back, just above the round of her behind, and he slides his fingers inside the waistband of her leggings and pulls her in close. Her hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, and into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Hi" he says.

"Well hi" she replies, and smiles brightly as he closes the gap between them and kisses her with purpose. She hums into the kiss - high and airy, like she's taken by surprise, though she's not at all. Her hips rock forward without thinking, her sex lightly digging into the zipper of his jeans, and he pushes back against her in response.

They kiss for a long time, hands holding each other close, bodies pushing into each other, their tongues dancing in a way that would make her students yell _ew gross_. She can feel the start of Bishop's erection in his jeans, and her own body feels warm and tingly, yearning for touch but equally enjoying the slow burn and tease.

"You've started something I hope you intend to finish" she says to him lowly, her mouth against his ear.

He smiles. "And in what way would you like me to finish it?" he asks.

She moans in response, kisses him again, and moves her hands down to untuck his teeshirt from his pants. She runs her short nails up and down the skin she finds underneath, warm and comforting. He groans into her kiss and mimics the motion, running his hands underneath her jumper and across her back. His hands venture down, under the band of her leggings again, and further to cup her arse and pull her into him. She gasps and her hands come around between them, working open his belt, then the button of his jeans, and then the zipper. She can't get a good purchase because they are too close together, but she runs the back of her fingers over his length through his underwear and he lets out a quick breath.

"Liz" he says. His tone sounds… interruptive.

"Yes?"

"I think… we should talk about…"

She leans back a little to look him in the eye. He sounds nervous, maybe even anxious, although he makes no move to put distance between them.

"About?" she prompts, placing her hands against the small of his back.

"About what we want… our future"

She furrows her brow a little in confusion, not entirely sure what he means, though she has a fair idea. They haven't really revisited his insinuations from weeks ago; that his desire to go legitimate was partly borne of thinking of their past, and the expectations and desires she harboured there, and the possibilities open now. They haven't had an honest conversation about marriage and children, and it sits in the back of her mind that if they truly want to try for those things they better get trying soon.

"What are you saying, Bishop?" she whispers, hope fluttering in her heart.

"What would you say to the package deal?" he asks, and before she can answer he slides out of her embrace and onto one knee in front of her, fly still hanging open and everything. For a moment she's too shocked to say a thing. (She supposes, somewhere in her mind, that he just got tired of waiting for her to make the first move.)

"Liz. Will you marry me?" he asks.

There's not a ring in sight, no plan or preparation, no romantic dinner or bed of roses. It's 8am on a Tuesday, for crying out loud. Yet it feels absurdly perfect, because this is exactly the kind of proposal Bishop would give her - no pomp or fanfare, just honesty and a bit of spontaneity, because he's never been a man of ceremony but he has always trusted his instincts, and there's something about this morning, and the firm plans they've laid out that makes this feel like the perfect moment to bite the bullet and finally have that discussion.

Unbidden, tears spring to her eyes, because this is what she's wanted for so long, since the very first time she told him she loved him . Just a few weeks ago the thought was stirred in her mind again, and it's been sitting there ever since, the tentative _maybe_ of a plan going unanswered. No other man has ever come close to this for her - there's not a single other individual that she could see herself saying _yes_ to, and not a soul on this earth that understands her the way he does, and it makes her watery, tearful answer all the easier to say.

"Yes, Bishop, I will marry you"

And he stands again and leans into her and kisses her with almighty passion, almost roughly, the hard thumping of his heart felt keenly through his shirt when she places her hand on his chest. Her own heart thrums wildly, her ears ringing - it was too sudden for her to get any nerves, too unceremonious for her to start practicing her perfect answer. But it was still exactly what she wanted.

"I love you" he says against her lips between kisses.

She hums in response, still fighting the urge to burst into full-blown happy tears. (They come anyway, a burn in her eyes that she can't blink away, a few stray tears falling as she succumbs to his affectionate assault. His thumbs wipe them away, not questioning where they come from - he can read her answer in her eyes, in her hands, in the way she keeps him close against her, not in the same passion as before but for something deeper. He doesn't doubt her answer in the slightest, which makes her all the happier.)

He pulls back just enough to look at her, one hand cradling her cheek and the other against her neck right where it meets her shoulder.

"I'm sorry it took so long" he says with a look somewhere between guilt and sheepishness, and at that she can't contain it any longer. Her head falls forward into his chest, his hand tightening against her neck as the other comes around her back in an embrace that feels all too familiar. The tears come - grief for the time lost, hope for the future in front of them, elation for the amazing place she finds herself in life - and he holds her because he doesn't know what to say, but he also doesn't have to say it.

When she collects herself a little she pulls away with a smile, and wipes her eyes with a manner of self-depreciation. She pats his chest as well, getting herself in order.

"This is really what you want?" he whispers, checking just one last time.

"I want it all with you, Bishop" she says quietly in turn, meeting his gaze with surety and unbridled affection.

"All?"

There was something in her tone - or perhaps her look - that made him catch that word a little bit. (He always assumed that, if they ever got married, then children would be a given option - as though one came with the other - and although that was his intention he didn't mean to ask her in the same breath as an engagement whether she was ready or willing to try being parents. It feels monumental enough to get engaged without adding the burden of parenthood to the mix as well, even if marriage was a somewhat foregone conclusion at this point. But they aren't getting younger, and a part of him still imagines seeing Liz as his wife and the mother of his child. It has been years since they first talked about it, but his feelings had never wavered and he's almost positive hers had remained equally steadfast.)

She nods, slowly, very purposefully, as though coaxing him to catch up to her.

"All" she drawls, smiling at him. He grins back, catching on quickly, delighted and equally overwhelmed with her enthusiasm. She recovers quickly, and seems just as eager to bowl him over as he did to her, which makes him smile because of course Liz would want to one-up his proposal of marriage with a suggestion to conceive.

"Can we get practicing right away?" he asks, looking playfully naughty. And she laughs at him and kisses him, her tongue darting out to tease his lip. He seems briefly startled, but recovers.

Her hands find their way once more under his teeshirt, this time pushing it up so that he's compelled to take it off, and her hands roam back inside the waist of the pants he undid before, still unashamedly hanging open. He's almost positive she's not wearing anything else under her jumper, and when he returns the favour and coaxes it up and over her head he's rewarded with being right.

"Do you want to take this to the bedroom?" he asks, his eyes captured on her breasts that he gently teases even as he asks.

"Absolutely not" she replies, and reaches her hand inside the waistband of his boxers. His head falls forward into her shoulder, and that's the last time he'll be asking that today.

He pulls at her leggings, and she has to shuffle from side to side so he can slide them over her bum and down her legs, taking her underwear as he goes. She pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs too, getting them caught mid-thigh; he tries to step out of them and fails, but it's close enough and serves the purpose so he leaves it. She shuffles to the edge of the desk and moans loudly when he enters her, holding her close with one hand on her back while the other braces himself again the desk behind her.

"So let me ask you something" he says, setting a burning pace to start (not quite their climax speed, more of a teasing, feel-good rocking).

"What's that?" she replies, her words turning into a moan as he bends his head and sucks on her nipple with a little bit of teeth. Her head falls back for a moment, her hands threaded into his hair, and she can feel his hand on her back, his fingers flexing to hold her up. He pulls back a moment later and she looks at him again.

"Elizabeth Brice?"

She lets herself get caught up in the burn between her legs for a moment while her mind mulls over her answer. It's a loaded question - one she used to think about when he first shared his secret, but hadn't given much thought to since then. Martin is barely a "Brice" himself, still settling into it after so long being Bishop. His nickname remains unchanged - a hard habit to break that has become a sort of running joke amongst them all, calling him _Bishop_ because it's all they've ever called him. But neither has she been particularly attached to her own surname. Half the boys wouldn't even know it such is the mystery of Liz's family roots. She's a traditional girl at heart, or traditional enough not to dismiss the question. It might be nice to take his name - like a fresh start for the both of them, symbolic of their coming together under this roof.

(Of course, a small voice in the back of her mind groans at the thought of all the paperwork required to change her name. But that's another headache for another day. For now she's preoccupied with being Martin's _wife_ , in law and in name, and it sends her giddy.

Or maybe that's the feeling of his teeth on her nipple again. She's not sure.)

"Hmm?" he prompts. "What do you think?" He's not stopping or even slowing down, so he must not be too hung up on the answer, probably more concerned with his assault on her senses than anything. Still, she doesn't want to turn it into a _thing_ , so she musters up enough thought to give an answer, and surprises herself with the surety of it.

"I think it will take me a while to get used to, but at least I won't be alone in that" she says, looking him in the eye. Martin looks pleased, maybe even a little bit impressed, like she's accepting a challenge.

"Really?" he asks.

She hums with pleasure, blinks slowly, and then looks at him again. "But you are helping me do the paperwork" she says.

He laughs at her, kissing her once, and huffs out _deal_ as he shifts his grip and stance. They hold each other's gaze as he picks up the pace, and her legs wrap higher on his hips to change the angle, one of her hands falling behind her to brace herself against the desk. She moans when he thrusts firmly and he answers with his own groan into her neck. His pace is stronger, firmer, and approaching that sweet spot that gets them both off. The desk beneath her is rocking slightly with them, the solid wood frame no match. (It feels metaphorical, but she'd never say that out loud; far too fanciful.)

She comes first - he makes sure of that - and she's still panting when she feels him slow, and then stop, spent, a thin sheen of sweat on their skin. Her legs lower slowly, her muscles cramped from the exertion, and he gently removes himself while his legs are still shaking. He looks mildly ridiculous now, his still-hard but softening length hanging out of his pants which are still around his knees. She takes a moment to sit on the edge of the desk and look at him as he tucks himself back in and pulls his pants up, but he doesn't do up his fly. He takes a moment to ogle the sight of her, buck naked and spread out before him, freshly fucked and smiling. She can only imagine the sight she presents, but by the look on his face he likes what he sees.

"So" he says, voice still breathless. "Shower?"

She giggles at him and nods, hopping off the desk, bending to collect their discarded clothes strewn around the floor. She takes one look back at her desk and decides not to straighten it out, to give herself a reminder of this moment later when it's work time.

He stops her from walking past him with a hand on her elbow, and when she gives him a querying look he merely bends his head down and kisses her softly. Her eyes flit closed as she returns it, and she smiles as she remembers that she is engaged now. They're getting married now. They might even try for a baby, or at the very least not do anything to stop it happening. A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with her nakedness and she opens her eyes to look him square on and size him up.

"I love you, Martin" she says. He smiles at her and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"Well god, I hope so. You did just agree to marry me"

The girly grin that spreads across her face is completely involuntary. "I did, didn't I?"

At that he laughs at her, throws his arm around her shoulders and starts leading her out the door and towards the stairs. "Yeah, you did" he says, and she can hear in his voice that he's just a little bit proud of himself for it. She's proud too, of the both of them. Proud, and so very excited for their future, Mr and Mrs Brice, living and working in their old Victorian, their crazy friends sometimes around, their home filled with a life she used to only dream of. All these storms and separations and adventures they weathered together but they are here now and it's simply joyful. And she knows she'll need to pinch herself later, just to make sure it's real, but for now she leans into Martin's embrace and makes sure to treasure this exact moment. It's like the smell of passing rain at the end of the thunderstorm; like freshly baked sugar cookies; like home.

_- &-_

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of headcanons about Liz’s background, including MIT and CalTech, but I’ll probably just work elements into these stories rather than spell it all out. Stay tuned for more chapters!


End file.
